


All the Seductions of Stone

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Crack, Friendship, M/M, marble, tragedy/romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan brings Methos to the museum to show him their new upcoming exhibition. Just after they leave, a statue is stolen, and the consequences of it change everything beyond MacLeod's wildest understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Seductions of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Philip Appleman. :)
> 
> This story is Methos/Other, although Methos and Duncan are very good friends. Also, I recognize the story is highly emo and disregards some canon characterizations, though I believe that given the flashbacks that it is generally adequately explained. The rest can be easily extrapolated. I'm not sure I'd call it crack!fic, but it walks the line.  
> I'd love comments/feedback, etc.

"What do you think of the exhibition so far?" Duncan asked. 

"Impressive," Methos replied. He looked over the collection of items in the room again with a practiced eye. "It should be very successful. You must be pleased with yourself."

Duncan tilted his head in acceptance of the honor. "And you haven't seen our _piece de resistance_. Come this way." Duncan led Methos through the gallery to a small alcove where a marble statue was tucked away safely behind dark blue velvet ropes. "What do you think? It's just on loan, but isn't it incredible? They think it is a copy, but whoever did it was a genius in his own right." 

It was a Greek sculpture of the late classical period. Done in brilliant white marble by a truly talented hand, it was the full form of a young man in upright, sinuous repose. One arm draped down against his side and the other reached out as if to touch something in a wonderful example of weight shifting. As far as Duncan knew it was untitled as the art historians were still in discussion about it, though he hoped it would be named soon. It was too exquisite to be Untitled for long. Duncan grinned up at the statue and waited for Methos to exclaim something about it, expecting high congratulations, but there was only silence. He glanced back and saw that Methos was utterly captivated. 

In fact, Methos was practically gaping. 

Duncan frowned, not liking the emotive rapture that was so unlike the man he knew. "Methos?" he whispered. "You look stunned. It's good, but you must have seen this level of workmanship before."

Methos didn't seem to hear him. He stepped forward as if he were a marionette with someone pulling his strings. He reached up a hand. 

"Methos," hissed Duncan. He moved to intercede. There was no touching allowed in a museum setting, Methos knew that, but he looked as if in a trance. Duncan wasn't quite fast enough. 

Methos leaned against the velvet rope, hand up-stretched, and his fingers brushed against the outstretched fingers of the statue, just at the fingertips. No alarms went off, and since they were there on a pre-opening tour, no guards were within sight, so Duncan pulled Methos away from the rope with a mixture of relief and annoyance. 

He gave the man a shake, and Methos blinked and focused groggily on Duncan. "Mac?" he asked, obviously confused. "What?"

"We should go. Let's get something to eat. Did you skip lunch?" Duncan chattered on, trying to cover up the incident. "We'll talk about it when we get to the restaurant. Come on."

Totally spaced out, Methos allowed himself to be led out of the museum. Outside, the fresh air felt good and Duncan turned his thoughts to what he would order for lunch. They were several paces past the door and down the steps leading to the street when the alarms went off. 

As soon as they did, with severe apprehension, Duncan turned around and ran up the steps. Others around him, museum workers and devotees alike, all did the same. 

"What happened?" he asked when he reached the guard room at the entrance. He could feel the others behind him, straining to hear the answer.

"The marble statue, it's been stolen!" the guard told him. "You can't go back in, Mr. MacLeod. I'm awfully sorry about that. They're in lock-down."

"Stolen? We were just there," Duncan said. "How can it have been stolen in less than five minutes?"

"I don't know, but it has been." The guard tapped the monitors at his station and Duncan could see clearly enough that the space beyond the blue velvet ropes was brazenly empty.

"That's impossible," Duncan muttered to himself, even as his eyes told him it had happened. 

"Yeah," agreed the guard. He brought his voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. "These monitors rotate through every five seconds, with each camera taking a different angle of a room. It's a live feed and I was watching this the whole time. So they stole it in about forty-five seconds." He raised his eyebrows at Duncan, his expression one of complete disbelief. "How do you move something that heavy so fast?"

"I wish I knew," Duncan replied, disgusted that such an incredible piece had been taken, and awed that the thieves should have been so obviously clever and skilled. Sirens grew closer and Duncan debated if he wanted to stick around to deal with law enforcement. He was a sitting member on the museum board, but he hadn't been inside when the theft had taken place. He hoped. He glanced down the steps and noticed that Methos was gone. It was just like the man to vanish at moments such as this.

~~~ 

_"Ours," claimed the head god of Wood. "He shall be forged in Wood, and ever remain. His strength is our strength and we claim it. His gifts are our gifts. It shall be as Wood that we present him to the People."_

_Methos was frightened. He did not want to exist as Wood, to be transmuted from one form to another for the rest of eternity. He stared at his hands and wiggled his fingers. What strength? What gifts? He was nothing but a scrawny child and certainly not fit for being harnessed into Wood. But how could he escape? Where could he go that they would not find him? There was no where and no escape; the gods saw everything._

_"Nay, ours," claimed the opposing head god of Stone. "We shall forge him in Stone, and ever shall he remain as our presentment to the People."_

_Methos looked across the way, as he was far below the tall and angry gods, to his friend, Niklos. Niklos looked just as frightened. They had yet to decide his fate, also. Methos wondered if anyone escaped being cast as Wood or Stone or Something Else and sent down to the People to bring them to remain faithful as an audience to the gods._

_Niklos gave him a conspiratorial look and scampered over to sit by him. He hugged him close and whispered in his ear, "Do not worry, I won't let it happen. I'll speak with Father. He will understand. I won't let them take you."_

_Methos shook his head sadly. "Not on my behalf. So far they have forgotten you. Perhaps it is on purpose, because of your Father. Perhaps it is because they have no use for you. Whatever they do to me, you must hide so they don't notice you. Go." Methos pushed at Niklos, but the other boy would not depart._

_"No," he said fiercely. "I'll stop it. I will."_

_Which was when the negotiations came to and end and the head god of Wood reached down and scooped Methos away, saying, "He is ours."_

_Methos shouted and stretched his arms out for Niklos, who still clung to him, and then their hands slipped and Niklos fell away. Methos only knew he was being crushed, and placed upon a station of some sort, and then the numbness crept into him. Soon, he knew nothing at all, for all he was, he existed only as a block of warm, smooth Wood._

~~~

Methos gasped and came alive. It was dark and he was desperately cold, and he was sure he was lying on a hard floor. His memories were fuzzy--he couldn't remember dying or where he had been. He vaguely thought perhaps he had been with MacLeod, but he wasn't sure. 

"You found me," said someone in the oldest tongue that Methos had ever known. He seemed to understand the words, but his brain fogged when he tried to speak them. 

"What has happened?" Methos asked, finally, in several languages, and hoped that one would be known. 

"And I told you I would stop it, and I did. And you found me, finally." 

"Who are you?" Methos tried again. How was it he could understand what the other man was saying, but he could not respond in the same language? Had he finally grown so old?

"They made you into Flesh," said the man. "But a more permanent kind."

"Yes," Methos tried answering again. This person knew he was Immortal, but he felt no corresponding signature from him. A Watcher? But the language was too old…a dead and gone language that was a dream language to start with. His eyes were finally starting to adjust to the dimness and he realized he was in a bare and empty space--another room in the museum gallery?

The man was stroking his fingers through Methos' hair and down his neck. It felt intimate and familiar. "You had a shock," the man said gently, "but you will remember soon. You knew when you saw me, and you freed me."

Methos closed his eyes and leaned back. His head ached and the cold in his limbs was growing worse. It was hard to remember anything; it was hard to pay attention.

"I have missed you for thousands and thousands of years," said the man. His voice was deep and smooth, and it too was familiar, though slightly different. Methos tried to remember when he had heard it before, but it had been so long ago, and he could not place it. The recognition of it fluttered at the edges of his memory. He knew only that this man must be familiar to him, but not how or why. The knowledge refused to be dredged up. 

"I longed for you and thought of you," continued the man. His fingers roamed everywhere now, and Methos realized that it wasn't just his own body that was cold, it was the man's fingers. They were hard and cool as marble. 

And then Methos remembered. 

The marble statue. Not Greek at all, not like MacLeod believed at any rate. Pre-Greek. Pre-human race. A statue presented from the gods of materials, from the beings that made the world exist in physicality. The gods that transmuted one form into another, changing beings into wood or stone or metal, or any other. Casting, he thought, and in naming it, remembered it fully. The gods cast the essence of their born-ones into the different materials of all the world. 

Methos had hardly dared to breathe when he'd seen it. Niklos. Cast in Stone, cast of marble. Reaching out for him, waiting for Methos to touch him and set him free. The fear and horror from those earliest of years had washed over him, unexpected, and unprepared for. Had he really forgotten what he was, what he had been? What Niklos had done for him?

Methos had reached and had touched. And there had been nothing. MacLeod had dragged him away, and Methos had not been able to fathom it--how could he be wrong? It was Niklos, and yet it had not been. 

But it had. 

Such an old Casting takes longer than a moment to melt away, and Methos had been standing on the bottom-most steps when Niklos had arrived. MacLeod had just turned away, running up toward the entrance to see what had happened, but Methos had already known. 

He had turned and seen Niklos, reached to embrace him, to kiss him and….

"You knocked me out," Methos said, finally, in the old language. It felt odd and wonderful to have his memories finally triggered. Where once there had been vague emptiness was now a totality of answers. 

In the gloom, the cold white marble of Niklos' face slowly curved into a smile. Methos realized Niklos' voice was different because he was not yet fully changed. "I am still Cast harder in Stone than I had thought to be. I'm afraid I caught you up in too harsh a grasp." His fingers explored over Methos' skin. "So many years, and even though I am but lifeless marble yet, I burn for you." Gently this time, Niklos began to kiss Methos. His lips softened as they touched, the longer the kiss continued, the less hard his skin became. 

Niklos' arms around Methos were still unyielding marble, but Methos knew that would also change with time. Perhaps. He would think on such things later. 

Niklos had been rendered naked and Methos began to shed his own clothes, too. A part of him knew it was folly--he was sure they were in the museum now and obviously everyone was searching for a missing statue--and it was only a matter of a short amount of time before the room was searched. But there was no way yet to get Niklos away. He still looked too much like a lifeless statue, cold and white, and carved. Staying put for the moment was the wisest option.

"I feel the changing come over me already," Niklos whispered. "The more I touch you, the more I need you, the more I feel real again, and no longer Cast."

"It takes a while," Methos said, remembering more than he meant to at that moment of the past. 

"You would have such knowledge, my love." Niklos wrapped his arms firmly around Methos and from then on there was no speaking, only the odd delight of delving into a relationship he had been parted from innumerable years ago. Niklos, being mostly marble still, was not a gentle lover, but Methos hardly felt the pain. There was no strength he had against a man of unyielding stone, and there was no denying the desire between them, and so he acquiesced in everything Niklos demanded of him. Whatever he did now, he thought, for what Niklos had done for him long ago, it was worth it. And his Immortal healing would take care of the rest. 

For all that, it was most pleasurable, and Methos found that in the dimness of the room, between the strange and unknown entering of his body and the rhythmic joining of his flesh with that flesh of stone, his thoughts flew away from him. He could not grasp at anything at all, and Niklos was saying over and over again, something, something in his ear, and clutching him too roughly, for what did a man of marble know of his own strength…. 

Then, Methos knew nothing at all.

~~~ 

_Wood no more._

_He slowly swam into being. He pushed up through fuzzy layers of nothingness, from a spot where he had been. The world was so different--he was no longer All and Everything. He felt so less solid now and it felt so much less than he ever wanted to be._

_Let me Be again, he thought. He did not want to stop Being what he had been, what he was. It had all shifted for him; it had been enough to just exist, without all this un-gratifying clutter of thought in his mind._

_What has happened, he wondered as he drifted into being Something Else, although one that was not an entirely unfamiliar state. He had once been this other thing before, he thought. So long ago it had been that he hardly remembered it, or remembered why he had once preferred it._

_Perhaps they had a question for him, or a task. Then he could go back to Being. He devoutly hoped so. The loss of his State made him ache all over, and the desperate longing for it was a sickness of mind that he knew did not even exist when he Was._

_"Methos? Methos?"_

_That had been his name, he thought. Perhaps he was not so much Being as he had thought, for to be truly Cast, one needed no name at all. One just was._

_He opened his eyes and saw a man above him. He had dark hair and bright eyes, was handsome in form and in face._

_"Oh, Methos," said the man. "I thought you'd never come back."_

_Methos just lay there and regretted that he was no longer Wood. It had been much simpler then, and better, and he hated every part of him that existed now that was no longer Cast. No wonder the gods fought so hard for each individual. It was such perfection to be Cast._

_"Come on, please. We have to move on."_

_Memory slowly returned and Methos spoke. "Niklos? What happened? I've been Uncast." He could feel his limbs again, and fingers and toes. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been Undone, but it made no sense. It was something that just did not happen._

_Tears stained Niklos eyes. "No. I stole the Undoing. I brought you back. Come on, we have to leave. They'll find us soon."_

_Wearily Methos began to move. "How long?" he asked._

_"A hundred years. Any more and I thought perhaps I couldn't have brought you back. Oh, oh, you were so changed." Niklos broke down and sobbed, clutching at Methos' hand. "I would rather have died than let that happen."_

_"It wasn't so bad," Methos told him as kindly as he could. Even as his sense of self returned to him, he still balanced at the precipice of desiring Wood over Flesh. A part of him regretted the Uncasting, but another part of him now remembered how he had feared it. "But I'm glad they never Cast you."_

_"Father wouldn't let them. I wish they had never touched you!" Niklos hugged harder at Methos and he gulped in air several times before he came under control again._

_"You are so different," Methos said, studying his friend. All the old memories were coming back to him, his individuality, and his own personality. The ache for Being was starting to subside, and he was beginning to suspect that it was only_ transition _that no one could stand, and that one craved to always be in one's own current form more than any other._

_"I aged and you did not. Come on. We've got to go."_

_Methos took his friend's hand and they ran._

~~~ 

"What the hell, Methos?" Duncan stared down at his friend in horror. "Thank God I found you first." He turned and quickly shut the door and locked it. "I knew you were here. I could feel your Presence." 

Methos was woozily sitting up. He put a hand to his head. "Waa?" he asked incoherently. 

"The marble statue has gone missing--it's been stolen. And I thought you'd left and gone away. I've been dealing with the police for hours, and when I came back into the building to get paperwork from my desk, I knew you were here. What the hell are you doing here?" Duncan angrily had his hands on his hips and was leaning forward. He was very tired from the endless questioning from the police and now to find Methos, nearly naked, on the floor of an empty gallery on the storage level? It was beyond the pale. "I want an explanation." 

"I--I'm not sure," Methos said as he looked around. He pulled his pants on haphazardly. "How exactly did I get here?" The look he gave Duncan was too quizzical to be anything but sincere and Duncan felt a frisson of fear. 

"You're kidding me, right?" he asked. "Please tell me you're joking with me."

Methos shook his head as if to clear it. "You said the statue was gone?"

"Yes. Stolen. Come on." Duncan put out a hand to help Methos up and when they grasped wrists Duncan gasped. "You're cold as ice."

Methos heaved himself to his feet and looked very wobbly. "I think you mean cold as marble."

"Well, you look just about as pale as marble," Duncan agreed. "Have you been eating?" He thought his friend looked a little thin, his face in too much stark relief. He had been worried about Methos' eating earlier, too, but now it seemed more evident. How many meals had he skipped? And why? The man was just looking very haggard. 

"I'm not sure," Methos replied. "Do you happen to have a couch I could rest on for a bit?"

Now Duncan was very worried. "Yes. In my office. And we'll order some delivery for you. You don't look right."

"You're a bright boy," Methos muttered, but divulged nothing else. 

Duncan helped him onto the couch and quickly flipped through the phone book until he found a nearby place to bring some sandwiches and soup. Methos needed hearty comfort food, nothing too greasy. Which made no sense. The man was an Immortal, and yet he looked very, very ill. 

"What's going on? And don't tell me I wouldn't understand."

Methos scrutinized Duncan's face. "To be honest, Mac, I don't fully understand. I've been remembering things. Things about my past…." He shook his head. "So long ago--I thought they were fairy tales, I thought they were origin stories. Who knew they were real?"

"What stories?" Duncan pressed. 

"About the gods. About existing. Did you know they sacrificed their young? Gave them up to the human people. As…gifts. Rare metals, gemstones, rough materials with hidden complements inside--you know, like the artist who frees the image bound within the substance that only he can see? I think…I think I was a hidden complement once."

"You're talking crazy nonsense you know."

"It was a great honor," Methos murmured as he fell asleep. "Except I was in love and it ruined everything when they Cast me."

"Complete gibberish," Duncan decided, and it made him worry even more. "Get some sleep and maybe you can tell me the truth when you wake up."

_It was a thousand years before they were caught._

_Nikos' Father was most displeased. As punishment, mostly for Niklos' sake, he decreed that Methos be Cast again, and this time as Stone._

_Niklos had begged and pleaded, and still his Father had said no. "We must not refrain from presenting to the People, my son. It is our duty. Though I hold you too dear to give you up."_

_Niklos' Father had looked anguished, Methos thought, and even though he had understood how things had to be, it had been a grim and nasty understanding. There could be very few exceptions, and Niklos was one of the few. There was nothing to do--no escape again--and Methos took it as stoically as he could manage. He had to, for Niklos' sake._

_"I don't mind, my love," he had told Niklos on the morning when he was to be Cast again. "It doesn't hurt, and you soon forget everything that there is to remember, so it doesn't hurt that way either."_

_"I won't lose you," Niklos declared, his chin jutted in a determined fashion and a glint of hardness was in his eyes._

_"I shall always Be," Methos reminded him. "And you can stay as close to me as you like."_

_"It's not the same." Tears leaked from Niklos' eyes. "I will come again. Remember me if you can. I'll come for you, I promise."_

_"Don't endanger yourself," Methos had said, and then to comfort Niklos as much as he was able, he told him, "And I shall always remember you in the very fiber of my being. Never doubt that."_

_Then they had come for Methos and caught him up as once before, and set him down on a station in the middle of something-ness, and in the space of a moment, he was Cast. Everything warm and living about him leached away and he became Stone, and that stone was marble, and flawless. What he had once been existed no longer and he was thence left to be presented to the People, to be used as they willed._

~~~ 

"Methos?"

"Niklos?" Methos woke slowly. He was stiff and cold again, and Niklos was touching him all over once more. "Where did you go?"

"I am still not quite Uncast, my love, and I was concerned your friend would not understand, so I left. I found you again, though, and he has gone for the time being." Niklos rubbed at Methos' arms, then his chest, and back to his arms again. "It is taking a long time for the change. I fear…." He checked his words. "But my memories are distinct more than yours ever were. But it is almost singular to you and I in all of creation--hardly anyone has ever been Undone."

"I know." Methos reached out and pulled Niklos down for another searching, searing kiss. "You came for me twice. Once I was made into Wood, and once I was formed into Stone, and both times you risked everything to save me."

"Always. And I would again, a hundred times more," Niklos promised. 

The second time was sweeter, Methos thought, and warmer. Though he suspected it was his own growing chill that caused Niklos to feel less cold, he did not care. He knew where this path led now, and he suspected it was five thousand years behind schedule. How had he lost Niklos for so long, and how had he forgotten so much?

"Please," Methos said, and tried to keep the note of desperation from his voice.

"Of course," Niklos said, the knowledge of exactly what would happen clear in his voice, and they claimed each other once again.

~~~

_The Undoing was far worse the second time. Methos had been so cold, so alone, that even the temperate air burned his skin like a flame. Desperately he tried to swim back down into the nothingness that he had been, was destined to be, and it slipped from his grasp until he bobbed up to surface in consciousness again._

_"Methos," Niklos gasped next to him. "Oh, my love."_

_Methos remembered more, and sooner, and when he could move again, and as the gouging longing in him for his old state of existence wore away like a faded shine, he turned to curl around Niklos. "Oh, Niklos. You shouldn't have. Your Father will be so angry." He wanted to cry, but the feeling was so far inside him that he could do nothing but stare ahead and wonder if he was forever damaged._

_"You'll get better," Niklos swore upon seeing how Methos reacted. "It will wear away, like it did the last time. It just takes a while." He dropped kisses all over Methos' face. "And you would come back to me because I asked it of you, wouldn't you? I know you would, for we are the same being, just in two different bodies. It is nothing but cruelty to Cast one and not the other."_

_"They would never do so."_

_"They did once before."_

_"But not for us." Methos sighed. "Not for me. For you, perhaps, if you'd speak with your Father."_

_"He'll not let it happen. He wants other things for me." Niklos looked grim. "Let's not speak of that."_

_Methos remained silent. Niklos was just like his Father in some ways, for he was determined to get what he wanted. That Niklos loved and desired Methos was the only thing that kept him from being nothing more than a pawn in a display of power between father and son. Because of that enduring love, and the love he held for Niklos, Methos would be Cast and Undone a thousand times more if that was how it had to be. "What now?" Methos finally asked._

_"We run," Niklos said, and the gleam in his eyes told more than his clenched fists._

~~~ 

Methos felt himself being roughly shaken and he blinked in the bright light of the room. MacLeod stood above him looking deeply concerned. 

Methos looked around, but Niklos was gone. "What happened?" he asked, and wondered if he was doomed to repeat that question ad nauseam. 

"You've been asleep on this couch for nearly five hours," MacLeod said. 

"Have I?" Methos asked. He was cold throughout, he knew, but it seemed a distant cold now. How long could he endure?

"Yes. And you didn't touch the sandwiches or the soup." 

"Wasn't very hungry," Methos said and tried to affect a convincing tone. He was so weary. Why wouldn't MacLeod leave him alone? Couldn't he see at all what was happening? Perhaps not, he thought, and MacLeod excelled at being bothersome.

"I noticed. Methos, what's going on with you?" Exasperated, MacLeod threw his arms up. "You didn't even twitch when I came in. What if I'd been another Immortal?"

"I'm a lot tougher than I look, MacLeod." Methos actually suspected that was true, but not in the way that MacLeod would take it. It was starting to feel a lot more literal. Methos noticed that his joints were smoother, slower. It took more energy to adjust his posture, his position. He looked up at MacLeod, tilting his head. 

MacLeod blinked and looked away as if he were unnerved. "The statue is still missing," he said, changing subjects. 

"I thought as much. I'm sure they'll find it soon," Methos said in his most reassuring voice. "Where else does the tour go? Paris, I hope? I do love Paris."

"What are you talking about? Do you know something about the statue you aren't telling me?" Duncan looked infinitely suspicious. "You were looking at it oddly. Did you recognize it?"

Methos smiled, but it was a secret smile and he knew it would irritate MacLeod to no end. "In a way, but it is of very little relevance to the police. The man the statue was Cast from was born long ago." It wasn't a lie, although he had never minded lying. 

"I guessed as much." Duncan shook his head and gave Methos a hard stare. "You aren't looking very tough right now, you know."

"I probably have caught one of those nasty micro-bugs that mortals always get. I think another few hours of sleep will be enough to deal with it." Methos didn't have enough energy to leave the couch anyway. He just wished MacLeod would leave so Niklos could return. One more time, he was sure, and he and Niklos would finally find their happy medium. 

"Okay," MacLeod said slowly. "I'll be back in a little while. Should I bring some food?"

"If you like," Methos said and snuggled into the couch. "Good-bye, MacLeod."

~~~ 

_It was two thousand years before they were caught again and there was no fury like the burning anger of Niklos' Father._

_This time, the punishment was meted out in equal parts._

_"If you so desire to be together, then you shall ever be apart," his Father commanded. "My son, your disregard for one of the more basic tenants of our duties to the People can no longer be ignored. For this, you shall also be Cast."_

_Methos gasped, horrified. He could not fathom losing all the essence that was Niklos. His Father adored him beyond all else, how could he do such a thing?_

_"No!" Methos cried out. "Please, Father of All. If anyone should be punished, let it be me. Twice the punishment if you wish." He held himself tightly and tried not to think what twice as much punishment would be._

_Father laughed. "You are not without your virtues, little man who won't stay Cast, are you?" He paused to consider and finally made his pronouncement. "My son, you shall be Cast. For ten thousand years you shall be Wood. And then for ten thousand years again you shall be Stone. So that you shall know what you've ripped from your dearest one." He turned to gaze down at Methos. "And for you, the last Casting. That of Flesh. Perhaps in that form you might be able to remain for a while. There is no Undoing for that Casting."_

_Niklos cried silently, tears streaming from his face. "Please, Father. No, please, no."_

_And Methos knew Nicklos' tears were more for Methos' fate than for his own._

_"I have spoken. And in twenty thousand years, perhaps you will return to me wiser and more able to perform your duties."_

_Methos turned to try and comfort Niklos--his own punishment was surely terrible, but he was relieved beyond measure that Niklos would not be permanently changed. He wrapped his arms around his love and held him tightly. "Just remember me when you can, when you are yourself again," Methos murmured. "It will be enough."_

_"I shall come for you," Niklos said, and a gleam of certainty came into his eyes. "Or perhaps this time you shall come for me." Niklos pushed something into Methos' hand. "It is the Undoing," he whispered. "I had only a little left, but I kept it for this day. Use it when you can find me, and I promise, I shall find a way."_

_"Niklos," Methos began, but was pulled away before he could finish. The last he saw of Niklos was his uplifted, defiant chin, and his sure look that whatever time was between, they would be together again._

~~~ 

"Methos," Niklos sighed into his ear. Again his fingers were nimble all over Methos' body, and more pliant than ever. 

"Yes," Methos said. He could not be Uncast this time, but he could be Recast. Forever. Niklos' Father would not be able to change anything once they became one. He thought of his life as an Immortal and found it to be so short, so achingly beautiful, and he remembered his philosophy of transition. It would be hard to leave, but only in some ways. In other ways--all the most important ways--all he wanted with every fiber in his being was to be reunited with what he had once been, and what he had once been destined to be, and what he had been waiting for without remembering for so long. This was why he had striven to live, to survive. For one day, to once again, Become. 

The third time was the most sublime Methos had ever experienced. He was freezing from the inside out and he clung to Niklos. "Don't stop," he pleaded. 

"Together," Niklos promised, and his motions became more graceful, more determined, moving them toward a goal together. "Never apart." 

Methos was stronger now, and Niklos moved where Methos desired him to move. They rushed forward together, tumbling along, a burning inside in counterpoint to the coldness overcoming them. Everything about him was slowing, each movement so delicate and perfect, the effect of the touch lasting forever inside his skin, echoes of the touch tessellating like crystal. His heart was beating slower, more sure and steady, and there was another beating in tempo with his. 

Niklos was keening, and Methos nearly burst to hear it. "Touch me again," he asked. "This will be the last time, ever…."

"No," Niklos countered. "It will be forever. I swear."

Methos did not correct him, though he doubted. The emptiness of Being was far away from him, and he hoped Niklos had found a way. But either way, he knew what sacrifice this was, and what was to be gained, and he opted for it nonetheless. 

Then, MacLeod returned. 

For a moment MacLeod stood shocked, still, and bewildered. Then he yelled, "Methos!", and Methos could still see enough to know he was beyond upset. The katana was brought out in a heartbeat and Methos was not sure enough of the Recasting to trust their safety to it. 

"No," he tried to say, but he still spoke in the old language, for his current day knowledge was hardening and gone from him. He could still move, but it felt too slow, and he knew it would be the loss of an arm at least. Still, he thrust it between MacLeod's blow and Niklos, and felt the sting of the blade bite into him. 

MacLeod instantly pulled his motion as much as he was able, though it cleaved halfway through Methos' arm before halting. "Methos?" MacLeod was uncomprehending. He went again to attack Niklos and again Methos tried to respond, but now he was too slow and solid to do so. 

Niklos took the blow to the heart, but of course, he was more Stone again than alive, and it was only an imperfection. He covered his heart with one hand and used his other hand to cover Methos' arm wound. "Forever," he said, though the word lisped through his stone lips. 

"Yes," Methos replied, though he could have done nothing else. The essence of Casting was upon him and that was all he desired to Be. They were together, and it was enough. 

~~~ 

Amanda sniffled into a tissue. "So what will you do?"

Duncan reverently touched the lump of marble--he could see nothing in it that resembled Methos anymore, nor the other man that had been there--the Greek statue, he had finally supposed. It was beautiful in its shape, though it appeared as if no artist had ever touched it. How it would have been removed from the earth in its perfect condition could never have been explained. 

"Keep it for as long as I live," Duncan replied. "Someone has to keep him safe." He looked to Amanda and she nodded. 

"As long as I live," she agreed. "Though let us hope I never have to take care of it." 

"I'd prefer it that way," Duncan said with a slight smile. 

"Do you think…he might ever come back?" she asked. 

"I don't know," Duncan said slowly, turning the idea over in his mind. He'd thought hard on the concept before. "He said some things before it happened, when I just thought he wasn't making sense. I think it could be undone, if you knew how. But he chose this. So maybe it shouldn't be undone."

"You can't think that," Amanda said, her face draining of color. "Who would want to be a big hunk of marble instead of _alive_?"

"He did," Duncan said. "I think he did. And I think there's a lot to this that we don't know."

Amanda started sniffling again into her tissue. "I just don't get it. Why?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say it was love."

She nodded. "Well, it'd have to be love. But how do you fall in love with a statue one moment and end up--" She couldn't bring herself to say the words and just pointed at the marble.

Duncan shook his head. He wished more than anything to be able to step back a few days in time, to change everything, to never bring Methos to the museum in the first place. He'd much rather have his friend than this strange art object. 

"Still," Amanda said as soon as she'd recovered from sniffling again, "it _feels_ like something to you, doesn't it?" She touched one rounded curve with wonder. "Not alive exactly, but…."

Duncan clasped her into a hug. He had been feeling it, too. "Yes," he said. "It does."


End file.
